Green eyes, dilated pupils, unwanted images
by Jbon
Summary: How does jane feel in the aftermath of his discovery at Walter Mashburns hotel room?


**A/N This is my first fan fic and I couldn't even work out how to do an authors note so at this point I'm wondering why I am doing this but here goes...please be kind. **

**I had that many thoughts about the implications of the end of Red Hot 3.07 (spoilers for that episode) and I for some reason felt in a hurry to write them down. Probably should have betaed. Probably should have not done this. But I really needed to express some of the things I think Jane would ben thinking about. So here we are. **

**Please don't think I judge people who have one night stands or that I think all people who do are damaged. I'm sure many are just out for a good time. I just kind of think that this interpretation fits with my thoughts on Lisbon. **

**Disclaimer - I don't own the Mentalist..clearly or this piece would be a whole lot better written!**

Jane's POV

I couldn't get out of that room fast enough. I didn't think about where I was going, not even sure how I got here. I drove no doubt, but the actual driving, the roads, the cars…. A complete blur of …I can't even describe it to myself. Maybe I don't want to know what it is, I almost feel …betrayal? (Leaving aside the complete lack of entitlement to feel betrayed, betrayal is definitely in the mix)…abandonment? …loss? …disappointment?…need? (Shockingly that's part of the equation too).

I'm not trying very unsuccessfully not to think about the events of this evening. …Embarrassment? … anger? Oh God what is it with me and the unrelenting need to diagnose/categorise/define every damn emotion currently plaguing me?

This case did not go as planned. My ruse backfired in a big way. And now I sit alone in the attic feeling like a good twenty people are berating me in my head.

No, this did not go as planned.

It really, seriously, didn't go as planned, or help anyone either. Well we caught the bad guy but that's paled into complete insignificance in my world.

I told Lisbon last week that I was sorry for making a mistake. I told her I wouldn't say it twice. Truth be told, I'd say it 100 times if I could change the course of the last couple of days and not be left standing in the motel room dreadfully, painfully, embarrassingly aware of the presence of Lisbon in the other room.

I told her a little empty glamour would do her good. How in the heck did she interpret that as a little empty sex? Empty…I ponder to myself a moment as I stare vacantly out the attic window. I'm actually stumped on that one, I'm not even sure it was/is (I really don't want to consider what tense is appropriate) empty sex for either of them. I know without a doubt that whatever her real emotions may be, her complete lack of trust and sense of self-worth will ensure that it plays out as such…A seemingly empty one-night stand. She will most definitely walk away in the morning.

Walter was right about damaged intensity…screw intensity, my Lisbon, is most absolutely damaged.

For months my mind has swirled with images of bloody faces, trapped, slashed, and a mentally tortured Kristina Frye, tigers, black nights and yellow eyes shining bright. I've held a gun and wondered at the instantaneous results of a gunshot, weighed the option against the need to watch Red John suffer as he did my wife and child. But tonight my mind swirls with other thoughts. Images come to me unbidden, unwanted and unrelenting.

Supressing such thoughts is usually my forte. In fact sex rarely comes to mind particularly recently. For one brief moment my mind went there with Kristina. The sheer ease with which I could have had her – after all she considered affairs fun – reminded me for one minute of what it was like to be a man. But with equal speed the thoughts dissipated. No, I did not want it, no she did not make me need, no I could not forget my wife and my purpose.

Now images of a half-naked Lisbon (naked?), sitting (hiding?) in a lamp lit room waiting for her lover to return from his chat with me, plague me into the early hours. I feel sick, I feel lost, I feel…confused and beleaguered. I read people…I know people…I can imagine them in every situation if I should want to. But I don't want to imagine… not her…not this.

I know her mannerisms, her voice, her expressions, her "sounds" and her stamina to know exactly what she would **be** like, would **like** … in bed. But I don't want to think it, can't and won't know what she would really look and feel like.

I'm tired, I'm upset… tonight my treacherous mind goes there. I see her arching above Walter. Intermittently this image is mingled with images of her arching above me. Images never witnessed but no less real in my mind's eye. The past months frustrations and desperations heat my body; provide fuel for the thoughts besieging my brain. I feel manic, desperate with the need for release. A release that I steadfastly, desperately assert will only come from killing Red John. Not tonight. Tonight I'm filled with the need for quick, intense, beautiful Teresa driven release. It's welling inside me and has as much chance of satisfaction as my hopeless search for Red John.

No point trying to sleep. My makeshift bed is sticky and twisted with tormented yearning, turning and sweating. I venture out into the empty floor below to make myself a cup of tea.

Walter Mashburn, I try to think of Walter. No, not what he's doing now. But what I actually think of him. I consider whether I can stabilise my new overly visual thoughts of Lisbon and deal with the fact that she is with him. Assuming I can become comfortable with her being with someone (and by no means is this assured) – am I ok with it being him. Oh God why is this even an issue for me. I have completely no control or entitlement to consider this part of Lisbon's life.

He's not a bad guy. Not really. I can forgive in him the qualities that I will never again forgive in myself. He came from nothing too. He clings to his riches like they were a life ring, something to save him from pain in his past. He can't deal with it, can't go back to life before money, so he feeds on money, crushing others, mindless women and glamour, wishing it would be enough to fulfil him. It's not. Lisbon, claims I like "poking" the rich. Well I do, but for some reason, not Walter. He's, well, a mate. I get him, I do. And I see how much he likes her.

More unwanted images flood my mind. My thoughts swirl focusing on dilated pupils and heaving writhing bodies. I drop my tea. The cup shatters on the floor and it's hot, burning contents scold my toes. But it's nothing compared to the pain I feel in my head. I am tempted to bash my head repeatedly against the kitchen cupboards. I want to still the endless images, cease the swirling thoughts. I want to feel a pain other than this new and unwelcome turmoil.

I sweep up the pieces of my cup, the pieces of my mind. I pop a headache pill.

Walter…no, this is not what he wants either. Not that he'd complain. What man would? But I have no doubt that Walter's intentions for Lisbon would grow into something more …permanent if she let it. He's known her for several days now, spread out in two lots over a year. But I think it's given him plenty of time to think about her. Lisbon makes quite the impression after all. Walter doesn't have flings with Lisbon, because he doesn't bother with women like Lisbon. He doesn't take the risk that he might feel something more. He doesn't take the chance of being hurt. No, Mashburn has disposable women, distractions…women who use him like he uses them. But it doesn't take a mentalist to see Walter wants to get to know Lisbon, maybe even expose his emotions to her. And now …today…his first love has just abetted her husband in attempting to murder him. No, Walter is not in a good place. …Well…he is right **now…**but trying not to think on that.

Lisbon…Teresa… I have no doubt what her intentions are tonight and it's not about fun or glamour. Ok…well if I admit it to myself (should I dare go there) fun would be part of it, after all she's clearly attracted to Mashburn. It's not often I'm shocked but I'll admit to a double take on her dilated pupils. I did not expect to see raw want in her eyes. No, for Lisbon, I am sure this is more about a need to be close to someone, to be un-alone for a short time. Of course…she's also a woman and she has needs. Lisbon is not surrounded by the fortress-like self-imposed walls I cacoon myself in, as much as I try to see her as a soul mate in pain. She does want intimacy but can't open herself up to it emotionally. My mind flashes to naked, lithe, gorgeous Teresa. I let my mind visually devour her. For a moment I almost drink her in. I inhale her delicate scent. I sink into my couch in a sleep deprived fever and allow myself to create an image so real it leaves me physically hurting with need.

Walter, Lisbon… their faces mesh in my mind fog. I'm on the outside. This is foreign. Teresa never leaves me on the outside even when I push for her to do exactly that. Isn't that what I've wanted these past few months, to push her away, to keep her safe?

Did she go to Walter for a night of fun? Yes, I'm clear on that. I know she's risky with her body. She's a cop after all. She places herself in physical danger all the time. The level of trust she has in Walter would not really need to be that great for her to spend the night with him. What Lisbon can't expose is her emotions. She is definitely emotionally damaged. But her needs for intimacy live on. Of course she'd manufacture a one-night stand. She would completely believe that she couldn't hurt Walter because he changes woman as often as his clothes. She would never consider that he might actually care for her – she would see no reason for him to. Hence, Teresa would feel no guilt, just fun, and intimacy for a night. She'd never consider that Walter might feel more than a fleeting loss at her decision to walk away. My heart aches for Lisbon and her low sense of self-worth. I feel sadness that she can't expose herself to emotional attachment. On the otherhand what if I am wrong and this is more than a one night stand. I've been wrong before…but I can't think of how I'd feel if she and he began a relationship. I am too overwrought as it is.

No, I'm sure she wouldn't allow that – her emotional walls are water and definitely Walter tight. Relationships for Teresa Lisbon are weakness, exposure, loss of control and dangerous. One night stands are a far safer option. All at once I feel both immense sadness for Lisbon and …relief (for that I berate myself half-heartedly) that she is as ready for a relationship as I am.

I feel exhausted, the sun is rising and my mind slows. I wander to her couch and bury my head in the cushions. Teasing Lisbon about Mashburn has been good for no one. Not for Walter, Not for Teresa and most definitely not for me.


End file.
